


the sound of silence

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Autobiography, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24727666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Which one was more likely?That all these people witnessed my cry for help, these hundreds of people heard my suffering, and deliberately chose to keep quiet? Or that it was me who was the problem, that it was me who was not deserving of help?I was met with nothing but silence, the most damning sound there is.
Kudos: 1
Collections: Anonymous





	the sound of silence

Back when I was eleven, I topped a relatively well-known national examination with a score of ‘only’ 98.53%. The achievement garnered me an interview with a local newspaper. To celebrate a genius that has arisen from dirt-poor poverty, supposedly. It was not considered an achievement at all in the eyes of my parents. I did not get a perfect score and therefore it was not worthy of praise.

To them, not being worthy of praise meant that they hit me until I was a mess.

Afterwards, they accompanied me to the interview nevertheless.

In the middle of that interview, we got the news of the results of an even more prestigious national examination.

I ‘only’ managed to place 11th out of nearly 40,000.

My parents requested for a break in the interview, dragged me to the break room, and gave me my punishment for making them lose face. They hit me until I couldn’t speak. The interviewers patiently waited until they were finished disciplining me, then politely asked if we would like to reschedule for another day. They fixed my hair and tried to rescue my blubbering face by applying make-up, before taking pictures.

At that point, it was all old news to me.

All of my teachers knew that my parents abused me. All of my classmates bore witness to days when I had to limp to school, when I had to write slowly because my arms were too bruised to write properly. The one time I had courage to call a crisis hotline, a social worker just came to our place, then told my parents about the call. I got beaten up harder than ever after that call.

Which one was more likely?

That all these people witnessed my cry for help, these hundreds of people heard my suffering, and deliberately chose to keep quiet? Or that it was me who was the problem, that it was me who was not deserving of help?

I was met with nothing but silence, the most damning sound there is.


End file.
